I Never Asked for a Fatted Calf
by Goodbye GoatHill
Summary: Free Indirect Discourse, Mycroft POV. Mycroft meditates upon his relationship with Sherlock, with flashbacks.


**I Never Asked for a Fatted Calf**

This is actually my second effort; the first is long and tied up in the beta process. I've decided to go ahead and post this un-beta-d (feedback welcome). More or less free indirect discourse, Mycroft POV. Sibling issues. Possibly embarrassingly cathartic. At least two literary allusions, beyond the fact that it is FF. Standard disclaimer that I own none of the rights to these characters, etc.

1/

"_Ja, Ja, genau."_

"_Alles klar, Guido."_

"_Alles Gut? …. Gut. Vielen Dank."_

"_Es tut mir leid, aber ich muss jetz zum Zahnartz gehen."_

"_Wiedersprechen. Ja, bis Mittwoch."_

Mycroft Holmes hung upon the German foreign minister, typing as he spoke. Really, it seemed as if he were running NATO all by himself. He checked his watch. Still a few minutes before he had to leave for the dentist appointment he'd used as an excuse to get off the phone. He switched over – where was the damned mouse? Why on earth the most – all right, nearly the most – powerful man in the foreign office couldn't keep his computer mouse on the lefthand side of his keyboard… Damn cleaning staff and their assumption of righthandedness. All right, there it was. He clicked over to the CCTV screens. He hadn't checked in on his brother for a few hours.

As a matter of fact, things were quiet at 221 B Baker Street. He zoomed in through the window to find Sherlock sitting at his desk; he appeared to be eating a sandwich. That was unusual. Sherlock didn't usually eat, unless John Watson was around to prompt him. Sure enough, John appeared behind Sherlock, gesturing. He looked upset, and Mycroft could see him saying something about "last of the bread." He saw Sherlock smile slyly before he turned to his flatmate. Mycroft sighed. If he was teasing John like that, that meant he was getting bored, but not yet to the point of total frustration. Mycroft checked his watch again. He figured he had about six hours to arrange for some case, some client, something, to drop into Sherlock's lap. Mycroft knew better than anyone how terrifying it could be when Sherlock got bored.

2/

It hadn't always been like this. Mycroft gazed out the window of his town car. This was unusual for him; usually, he dictated to his assistant, or read through files, or grabbed a few phone calls while he travelled. But today, he looked out the window, marking the location of each and every CCTV camera on the route to the dentist. And he worried about his brother.

As a younger man, Mycroft had let Sherlock go his own way. While Mycroft was doing everything right – right uni, right clubs, right advisor, right internships, right dissertation, right mentor - Sherlock was doing everything wrong. He came as close as possible to flunking out of every school every year, but always managed to pull it out. He'd go and charm the teachers, repeating their lectures back to them, adding on, as an afterthought, his own commentary, which incidentally disproved their life's work. They'd pass him just so they wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. Mycroft knew he was brighter than his classmates and worked hard to show it. Sherlock knew he was brighter than – well, than everyone – so he never felt obliged to demonstrate the self-evident.

Mycroft knew he would outshine their father, and he had already gone farther in the Foreign Office than he ever had. He knew Sherlock could have gone farther still if he hadn't been such a prodigal. Mycroft wasn't jealous – what little jealousy he might have felt had converted to admiration years before – but it was tiring, loving Sherlock. So he did it from a distance, knowing that if he got too close, Sherlock would just pull away.

They went along like this for many years. Mycroft worried but gave Sherlock his space. Mycroft told himself he was treating Sherlock like an adult, that hovering would only alienate his brilliant little brother, that Sherlock could handle himself. He questioned this approach sometimes, like the year Sherlock spent his spring holidays in Greece – in a prison in Greece, as Mycroft found out. He'd gotten him out, of course; it was all a misunderstanding, really. That was the first time Mycroft had pulled strings on his brother's behalf, and he told himself that he was not making this into a habit.

Mycroft should have started paying closer attention at that point in time.

He didn't though, did he? No, no. He was rising through the ranks, and he had his career to think of. Sherlock had lived with Mummy for a while after that. That hadn't gone well at all, but only Mummy was surprised at that. Sherlock was her favorite, after all.

The car stopped. He leaned forward, told the driver when to return, and went in. Nasty teeth. He'd have them all out if they gave him much more trouble. Waste of time.

3/

"Just lean back in the chair, Mr. Holmes. This won't hurt a bit."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at that. He was used to the easy social lies that constituted so much of daily conversation, and he could lie fluently when it was necessary, but this was so bald-faced as to be pointless. Nevertheless, he leaned back and obeyed, letting his mind wander.

He'd been lucky, really. Sherlock had overdosed at a friend's house, and the friend had called Mycroft right away. Mycroft pulled strings, again, arranging private medical care and a posh rehab program. He made sure there was no police investigation. He had done everything… well, not right. The right thing would have prevented the OD in the first place.

Mycroft asked himself the same old questions. Should he have sent Sherlock to that graduate program in Paris? Should he have made him take that job in the Home Office? Should he have moved Sherlock in to his flat with him? Should he have sent Sherlock to rehab when he first realized he was using?

Any of those might have helped. No way to tell, now. He'd followed every option to its logical conclusion, and the only sure conclusion he could ever reach was that Sherlock would hate him. Sherlock would have hated him if he'd made him go to grad school or get a job; Sherlock would have hated him if he'd sent him to rehab; Sherlock and he might have hated each other if they'd tried to live with each other.

That was what it boiled down to; because he didn't want Sherlock to hate him, he'd almost lost his brother. That's when he had decided that a live Sherlock who hated him was preferable to a dead Sherlock.

That's when Mycroft began this backstage life, using his power and connections to watch his brother, to keep his brother busy, to keep him alive. Sherlock knew what he was doing, and resented him for doing it. The boy could be so predictable. It didn't matter, anymore, if Sherlock disliked him. What mattered was that he was alive to do it.

4/

"Rinse and spit, sir."

"Mmmm?" Mycroft roused from his reverie.

"Rinse and spit, here."

Mycroft did as he was instructed, taking a break to check his mobile. He had e-mails from Westerwelle and Clinton... and Juppe, too. So tedious, the French, and their damn revolving door. Sarkozy couldn't keep anyone in the foreign office for any reasonable amount of time, leaving Mycroft to retrain yet another diplomat who should have retired to Provence or the Riviera years ago.

NATO would survive if he finished his root canal. He let it go, and settled back into the chair.

He could remember the day Sherlock was born. He was seven. He'd since wondered if Sherlock had been a surprise, or a longed-for triumph; at the time, Mycroft at least had been happy about the baby. He'd wished, vaguely, for a sister; in all the books he read, brothers and sisters had such lovely adventures together. He wasn't particularly disappointed; a brother was good, too. Mummy was happy and Father was proud.

Father had sat him down that night, after they'd visited the hospital. He'd explained that being a big brother was a special responsibility. From now on, he had to do his best, not just for himself, but as an example for Sherlock. He had to take care of himself, not just for himself, but for Sherlock. He had to take care of Sherlock, too; that's what being a big brother means. You are never alone in life.

Mycroft never forgot their father's words. He'd lived by them, even as a child. From the first day, he'd tried to guide Sherlock. He taught him to read. He'd gotten into silly, foolish fights at school because of Sherlock. When Sherlock needed someone to accompany him at his violin recitals, Mycroft had sat dutifully at the piano, always taking the tiniest bow and gesturing towards his brother, the soloist. He had looked forward to the future, when the Holmes brothers would make a name for themselves in the world, when they could go off and have adventures together.

He had begun to realize that future would never materialize around the time their Father had died; after Greece, but before the OD. Father had called Mycroft to the hospital, to talk to him. Father had told him about his own brother, like Sherlock a beloved and brilliant younger sibling. He told him about the motorcycle accident that nobody believed was really an accident. Mycroft had been awkward and nervous; it felt like the sort of conversation a man would have with his son before he died, and he didn't want his Father to die. He didn't want to have this conversation, so he'd told his Father what he thought he wanted to hear:

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to him."

Father had smiled weakly. Mycroft could still see how pale his face was on the pillow. "I'm not asking you to keep anything from happening. I'm just asking you to look after him when something does happen."

5/

Mycroft's car arrived at the dentist's office at the precise moment it was required. He sat down in the back seat, rubbing his jaw. He checked his phone again: NATO still existed, if his e-mail account was any indication. Better still, there was a text:

_He's on a case for me. John is with him._

_GL_

Mycroft sighed. It was lonely business, loving Sherlock. It was good to have a little help along the way.


End file.
